To Be Special
by pearblossoms
Summary: Between the scenes of "Asian F".


Tina's fingers always fascinate him. The way they run down his cheek, the way they idly brush through his hair, and the way they splay across the piano keys effortlessly, when he knows perfectly well that she practices for hours after school.

She's dedicated. Dedicated and always willing to help and these past three weeks have been no exception. He stares intently at her as she flawlessly sings an arpeggio, dotting each piano key with the gentle touch of each finger.

"Mike, the point is to repeat the arpeggio after I sing it," she giggles, swinging her feet from where they dangle over the piano bench.

"Sorry," Mike grins, gently nudging her shoulder with his own, "Can you repeat it?"

"You should really pay more attention," Tina chides, "Or else I'm canceling our private lessons."

Mike looks horrified, "Including or not including our post-lesson tradition?"

"_Mike_!"

"Kidding," he teases, brushing a quick kiss against her cheek, "I promise I'll be good."

"You better be," she laughs, proceeding to repeat the arpeggio.

He repeats it as properly as he can manage, though even his non-trained ears can tell that the top note fell a little bit flat, but Tina simply smiles serenely and repeats the top note for him to sing. She's so patient with him, so perfectly capable of teaching that it makes his heart swell with pride.

Mike attempts the arpeggio for the second time and this time, he figures he might have hit it because Tina breaks out in a huge smile and gives him a quick kiss to prove his success.

As she pulls away, he bites down on his lip, uncertain how to ask the question that's been plaguing him ever day one of this whole crazy endeavor.

"Tina?"

"Hmm?" Tina's fingers ghost over the piano keys once more as she quirks an eyebrow.

"Am I- do you think I'm being crazy?"

Her head immediately snaps over to face him and her eyes are practically ablaze, "For wanting to audition? Mike..."

"No, but seriously!" Mike wrings his hands, unable to look her directly in the eye, "What if Artie and Bieste and Ms. Pillsbury just laugh me off the stage? What if they let me dance but get rid of me before I have a chance to even _show _them what I've been preparing? Who am I even kidding? I'm not a _singer_, I-"

"Mike Chang if you even _think_ about backing out of this, I will personally drag you onto that stage and tie you to a chair until you get that song out and show them what a talented singer you are._"_

"How am I supposed to move, let alone _dance_, if you _tie_ me to a chair?" Mike asks, amused.

"You managed it that one time," Tina taps her chin thoughtfully, "The chair kind of just _lifted _off the ground with you."

Mike flushes a little, "That was different."

"How was that any different?"

"You were sitting across the room without _any_ clothes on and I wasn't about to just _sit_ there and watch you _dance_ like that."

* * *

><p>There are certain dooming moments in high school that sort of just <em>get<em> to you. Like at football games when you know there's just no chance of coming back with thirty seconds left in the game. Like at Nationals when the top ten teams were posted and New Directions was nowhere to be found. The world comes crashing down like a landslide of wasted preparation and lost potential.

This is one of those moments.

His dad's eyes are closed. There are three main rules of interpreting Mike Chang Sr and his minimal amount of facial expressions. If his mouth is in a straight, unyielding line, he's generally satisfied with the situation. It'll do. For now.

The second rule is that if his eyebrows are knit together, it's time to get out of the room. He's doing his best to keep calm but all hell will break loose if you push him the wrong way so it's really just safer to let him cool off for an hour or two before approaching him again.

If his eyes are closed, the only rule is to be glad you don't live under the same roof as him. Because he's on his way to short-circuiting.

But the problem is, Mike _does_ live under the same roof as his father, and there's really no escaping him, his mom, or the dinner table at this point. His chemistry test is on the table between his father's rice and chopsticks (He's not eating, which is a _terrible_ sign). The red A minus displayed horrifyingly clear across the top is taunting him.

He remembers this test quite clearly. It was on oxidation and reduction, and he thought he knew them rather well, to be perfectly honest. If only he hadn't mixed up the oxidizing and reducing agents...

And maybe hanging out with Tina the night before the test wasn't the _best_ idea in the world, but they had gone out for coffee together and after countless private lessons together, it was kind of nice to get away from the piano and get a quality night with his girlfriend again. Had his mom asked him if he was ready for the chemistry test? Yes. Had he dismissed her question, insisting that he'd be fine and knew oxidation like the back of his own hand? Yes.

So maybe it was his fault. And if he hadn't been raised by his dad for the past seventeen years of his life, he would have been astonished that an A minus would cause this much calamity in one household. But facts are facts and he _knows_ his dad. An A minus is nothing to laugh or joke about.

An A minus is an Asian F.

* * *

><p>The meeting with Principal Figgins goes exactly how Mike had pictured it (with the exception of the weird, offhand vampire comment that made him question Tina's previous insistence that the fangs she bought were nothing more than a part of her Halloween costume for this year). His father had left the school with nothing but a curt nod and a stern gaze and Mike's left standing by his locker with a stone nestled uncomfortably in his gut.<p>

_An oxidation is the _loss_ of electrons. _Not_ the gain of electrons. _

"Ready for song practice? Your audition is tomorrow?"

Tina's voice is both comforting and staggeringly disconcerting. He wants so badly to hug her to his chest and forget that A minus and the sound of his father's disapproving voice, but he feels like if he does, he might break down completely. And the last thing he wants is for Tina to think he's a total wuss.

"I'm not auditioning," Mike says carefully, stuffing a book into his locker.

"What are you talking about? We've been practicing your singing every day!" Tina looks mildly horrified, "This is your chance to break out and show everyone you're more than just a fleet-footed dance ninja. Riff is perfect for you. He sings, he dances, he dives. He's like the second male lead, Mike!"

Her words are spilling past her lips and mushing together into an incomprehensible lump. And he _knows_ she's trying to encourage him, to give him that extra push he needs to get up on that stage. But right now, all his mind is focused on is that little A tarnished with a single minus sign.

Mike takes a deep breath, "I'm overwhelmed and losing focus. Football, Glee Club, booty camp so we're ready for sectionals." He hesitates a little. If anyone will understand, it's Tina. "I got an A minus, Tina."

Her response makes him remember how perfectly she understands him.

"You got an Asian F?"

"My dad is all over me."

"You shouldn't have to hide your dreams," Tina insists firmly, "You should just... be honest with him!"

Honest...

Easier said than done. And this isn't the first time, either.

_Mike stares down at his English paper in terror, then back up to Mr. Owens. _

_"Is this... will it... how much is this worth in our final grade?" Mike stammers, afraid to look down at the ninety-one percent again._

_"About five percent," Mr. Owens shrugs, peering down at Mike's grade, "Congratulations on a fantastic paper, Mr. Chang. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it."_

_Fantastic? How could it have been fantastic if he had lost nine percent? Where did the other nine percent go? Was nine percent of his essay just worthless crap? Oh god, he was thinking like his dad again._

_When his family had sat down for dinner together that night, his dad had asked about his essay. He _knew_ it was one the biggest assignments of the year. Damn him for reading the handout that had been distributed at Curriculum Night._

_"Did you get your essay back today, Michael?" _

_Mike gulped down his vegetables, stalling for time before setting his chopsticks down on his bowl, as though it was necessary in order to answer the question._

_"Uh, yeah, I did."_

_"And?"_

_"A," Mike shrugged. Technically that wasn't a lie. An A minus was still an A. Sort of._

_When he went back up to his room after dinner, Mike sent the essay through the shredder and watched it disappear from the Chang household. _

_Where A minuses were simply unacceptable_.

Honesty. Maybe Tina _didn't _get it.

"Oh, like how you were so honest about pretending to stutter all that time?"

Shit. Word vomit. That's all he's been able to manage these past few days. Yesterday he told his mom that her stir fry had been a little bland. She had raised an eyebrow in response before he managed to apologize profusely and convince her that it was actually the best stir fry he had tasted in days.

"Point taken," Tina exhales slowly. The look on her face kills him.

_Apologize to her. Idiot. Idiot idiot idiot. _

He has to get to chemistry. Today's lecture is on isomers and he can't miss it. Avoiding her gaze because he knows it will simply tear him apart, he hurries off to class, feeling worse than he's had all week.

* * *

><p>"I'm leaving right now to meet the chem tutor at the library," Mike insists over the phone, "I promise I'll bring my grade up. Dad, I'm so sorry for disappointing you."<p>

His dad manages a grunt over the phone before hanging up without saying bye. He doesn't usually, anyway, but today it resounds worse than ever before.

As Mike strides down the hallway, each foot dragging across the floor as though it weighs fifty pounds, he passes by the dance studio, and suddenly, it's like the library doesn't even _exist anymore_.

He really didn't want to disappoint his dad. Because despite every ounce of madness that accompanies a typical Asian parent, his dad means well. And he knows he and his dad have different ideas of what success truly means.

Success, to his father, is a framed certificate of a graduate degree, hanging over the fireplace for everyone to see. Success means A's and 4.0's and Harvard because it means intelligence, wealth, and genuine hard work. Success means crisp business suits and practical ties that neatly coil around the collar of a well-ironed shirt.

But to Mike, success is the wind brushing past his bare arms as he spins in circles in his loose tank top. Success is the strength and balance it takes to perfect a series of complicated moves.

Because you can't dance in a business suit. You can't perform with your arms wrapped around chemistry textbooks.

He watches himself in the mirror as he completes a turn, his arms held out wide and his legs twisting quickly. This is home.

Every trace of frustration he's felt over this damn A minus is being shoved into this dance. Every retort he wanted to snap back at his dad for making the walls close in from every angle this week is being funneled into each movement until...

"Michael, we worked so hard to get to where you are. And this? This is how you waste your time?"

His father is in the mirror. Next to him. It's like he's looking into some sort of convoluted, opposite version of the Mirror of Erised. Like the mirror is showing him exactly what he _doesn't_ want.

"Dancing is something you do at a wedding. It's a hobby, not a career. There's no future in it."

Mike whips his arm out in an attempt to shake the image away. All he gets is the thought of his dad, holding on tighter than ever.

"What happens if you hurt yourself? You're one injury away from having nothing. You will not waste your life."

His dad's words echo in between his ears like a death sentence. Mike's limbs are shaking.

_Dance_. _Dance to get away_.

He shakes his head. Hard. And continues to make his way across the studio. He manages one more turn before hitting the floor and hearing the softest, most delicate voice.

"So beautiful."

_Tina. _Her voice is nothing short of perfection in his ears.

"You don't talk that much," she utters quietly, her lashes fluttering as he stares speechlessly, "You hardly ever sing. But when I see you do that... it's who you are. It's what makes me feel you."

Tina's grabbing his hand, taking it and pressing it against the left side of her chest. Right over her heart. He stops breathing.

"Mike, you gotta know by now… when I see you dance, it's why I fell in love with you."

And just like that, regardless if this is some sort of crazy hallucination that his stress-addled mind is conjuring, his heart is soaring.

She's in his arms. Or maybe she's not, but in his mind, she is. And she is warm and comforting and perfect and he can barely breathe or think properly. All he can feel is _her_.

When her apparition finally disappears, he can see clearly once more.

* * *

><p>"Tina!"<p>

She's at her locker, checking her hair in the little plastic mirror that's stuck to the door of her locker when he calls to her. When she spots him, her expression is somewhere in between stubborn resolution and apprehension.

"Hi Mike."

"Tina, I'm sorry," Mike says firmly right away, "I didn't mean to bring up your stutter. Or to snap at you. Or to offend you in any way. Or-"

"-_Mike_. It's okay," Tina smiles a little, "Really."

"I've just- I've just been so stressed out lately and something inside of me just _snapped_."

She gets on her tippy-toes and plants a gentle kiss on his left cheek as a signal of reassurance, "I know."

"I'm gonna do it."

"Do what? Audition for Riff?" Tina breaks out in a huge grin.

"Yeah," Mike reaches over for her hand, lacing his fingers in between hers.

"What changed your mind?" She asks, clearly excited.

As they walk to booty camp rehearsal together, their hands intertwined and their arms brushing against each other, Mike takes in the sight of Tina, overwhelmed by every last bit of her. Everything from her gorgeous smile to her relentless support and he can't help but supply a cheesy answer despite the fact that he knows she usually hates corny lines.

"You."

Because even if it's hopelessly corny, Mike thinks back to the dance studio as she laughs and elbows him in the side, it's still true.

* * *

><p>It doesn't go as perfectly as he would have wanted. But then again, he's a perfectionist and if things aren't perfect, he gets nervous. Really, really nervous.<p>

But they're _clapping_. Like _actually_ clapping and Mike is officially getting his first singer's high _ever_.

"Wow Chang, you must have worked really close with my boys there. That was some really fancy footwork," Bieste praises with a kind smile, "I just hope you didn't waste too much of your time."

Waste?

A flash of his father's face appears in his mind.

And with that, everything about dance, about his father, about Harvard and A minuses on chemistry tests. Everything suddenly makes perfect sense.

"It's what I love to do," Mike manages between heavy breaths, "It's never gonna be a waste of my time."

* * *

><p>Mike has no words. Because there really are none to describe his mother's presence. At his school.<p>

"_Mom_? What are you doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing, Michael?" His mother's voice is laced with concern.

"I'm just... warming up for football." What a shitty lie. His mom knows him better than that.

"How can you look at me like that and lie to me? I got a call from your chemistry tutor when you didn't show up."

Guilt floods across him at the disappointed expression across his mother's face.

"I covered for you with your father, so now I'm a liar, too. The least you could do is tell _me_ the truth."

"I auditioned for the school musical," Mike blurts out.

He has to be honest with her. Every time she gives him that look he knows that she deserves the truth because all she ever wants is the best for him.

"I don't wanna be a surgeon or a lawyer, Mom," Mike's vaguely aware of the fact that he sounds a bit like a five year old, but it's the most honest he's been with his parents yet and this is what he needs to say, "I wanna be an artist. _Special_. The only time I really feel special is when I do..." He spins a little, feeling slightly foolish, "_That_."

His mom's mouth opens and closes several times. And if he knows her like he thinks he knows her, it's a clear indication...

"_Mom_. Please don't cry.""

"Michael, my job is to encourage you to live your dreams—not mine, not your Dad's. I was raised a certain way. My parents had expectations of me and I simply was not as courageous as my son."

Mike's heart skips a beat. Is she... going to be supportive of this?

"I let go of my dreams, but I never want you to do that. Do you hear me?"

_Yes_.

"So," her voice loses its wobbly nature, "Do you know if you earned that part in the school musical yet?"

He shakes his head, feeling more like a little kid than ever. But his excitement is all but bubbling over the rim because his mom is okay with all of this. No, she's more than okay with it. She _wants_ it for him.

"Well when you do, we're gonna tell your father about it. Together."

It takes more effort than he's willing to admit not to tear up right alongside his emotional mother. "_Mom_."

He envelops her in a long overdue hug. One that both she and him deserve because for once, two Changs are at peace with one another over something much more than just Harvard University.

As they pull apart, Mike frowns, "So... what dream did you let go of?" He's almost afraid to ask, like it's some sort of deep, dark secret that's never meant to see the light of day. But his curiosity gets the better of him.

His mom hesitates, but a small smile tugs at the corners of her lips, "Like you, I loved dancing."

It feels like everything about his past, his present, his future, and most importantly, his relationship with his mom is finally falling into place. Like they used to be strangers, separated by a barrier of generations that only came down to check up on grades and school progress. But no. His _mom_ had loved _dancing_. It had been this hidden link between them all this time and it makes Mike feel like... like everything just makes _perfect sense_.

"But... your wai gong never let me take lessons."

Mike remembers the one time they visited his grandparents in China. His grandmother- his wai po- had been overly hospitable and kind, but his grandfather- his wai gong- was stern and unyielding, much like his father. It didn't surprise him all that much that he had restricted dancing lessons from his mother.

"Some people think I'm a pretty good teacher," Mike grins, suddenly inspired.

He takes his mother by the arm and he leads her into a slow, careful waltz and the elated smile that appears from behind her previous tears makes him so, so, _so_ proud to be her son.

* * *

><p>This must be what it feels like to be a presidential candidate waiting for the ballots to come in. Except maybe not quite, but it doesn't even matter because Mike's palms are sweating beyond what he had ever thought was humanly possible and even though Tina is squeezing his arms in attempt to assure him that everything would be okay, he is nervous beyond <em>belief<em>.

He hurries down the hallway with Tina's hand clamped in his and suddenly, he spots an extra white sheet of paper on the bulletin board and he knows. He just _knows_ this is it.

The words are small and they kind of give him a headache but there aren't that many names on the list and there's only one Riff and there's only one...

_Mike Chang_.

His excitement explodes exponentially as he breaks out in a huge grin, turning to Tina who's already beaming with a smile that rivals his own and she's grabbing him around the waist at the exact same moment that he pulls her into his arms and the pride splashed across her face makes him want to run laps around the school or rip his chemistry textbook in half or something but it mostly just makes him want to pick her up and swing her around in circles for being the perfect, supportive girlfriend she is.

So he does that instead.

"Thank you," he breathes inside her ear as he swings her around and she giggles breathlessly.

"_I'm so proud of you_" Tina's lips tickle his ear gently.

This is what he had been working so hard for. What he and _Tina_ had been working so hard for.

This is what it's like to be an artist. A performer.

To be _special_.


End file.
